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“Were you any good?”

“The neighbors left notes in our mailbox. Polite ones at first.” He chews an almond. “Then less polite.”

I laugh so hard I snort. Does he even know how funny he is? I don’t think he does, and that makes it even better.

“Why did you stop playing?” he asks.

I shrug, because it’s an old story. “We got signed to a label. They wanted us bigger, and bigger meant shinier. They loved how I looked right until they didn’t. Then it was, ‘Could you lose the lip ring for the shoot?’ and ‘Could you cover the neck tattoo for the album cover?’ A publicist handed me a concealer stick.”

He’s turned all the way toward me, his amber eyes fixed on my face. He’s paying attention with his whole body, the way he listens to the forest.

“Did you do it?” he asks.

“I covered the ink and took out the ring and smiled for the camera. We broke up six months later anyway.” I flick an almond into the creek. “Turns out making yourself easy to look at doesn’t make you hard to lose. So, I made myself a rule. I don’t shrink myself to make other people comfortable. And I never help anybody cheapen what’s real just so it’ll sell.”

His hands close into fists on his knees. “They had no right.”

His voice is close to a growl, and every hair on my arms stands up. My bandmates never got angry for me. My manager never did either. No one did. I like it. Maybe too much.

I look down at my notebook so I don’t do anything stupid, like crawl into his lap.

Every morning that week, I ask about the north loop, and every morning I get a new reason. Each one goes on the list in the back of my notebook.

1.The creek’s too high at the north crossing. (It rained once. Lightly.)

2.Wasp nest on the north trail. (Possible. Unconfirmed.)

3.Need to finish the south loop first. (Fair, but suspicious.)

4.“No.” (Technically, not a reason.)

On the last afternoon of the week, back at the station, I read the list out loud while he’s refilling the water bladders.

He doesn’t turn around. “They’re all true.”

“They’re excuses.”

“Both can be true at once.”

I can’t argue with that, which is annoying. He still hasn’t turned around, and I’m pretty sure it’s because he doesn’t want me to see his face.

So I say goodnight and go up to my apartment. Then I sit on my bed and open the maintenance log on my laptop, because I’m a wildlife officer, and noticing patterns is my job.

The south loop entries are what I’d expect: bridges, drains, fallen trees. The north loop has fewer entries. The north interior, the blank space on the old map, has just three scattered entries over the last few years. Easy to miss, but they’re all in Holt’s handwriting, and they all say the same thing:

“Boundary marker repaired.”

What boundary? The map doesn’t show a fence, a closure, or a single sign.

I think about his face every time I say the word north. The way his ears go flat and his jaw goes tight, like I’ve stepped on a bruise.

He isn’t stalling because he’s lazy, or because he doesn’t like me. I’m sure he likes me now, at least a little. He’s protecting a secret.

I close my laptop and look out the window at the dark line of trees to the north.

So what are you hiding, Holt Ashford?

CHAPTER 4